Six Old Men Capter One

Chapter 1

Groton Connecticut  (September 1990 Departure day minus one.) 06:00 Hours

There’s a thick fog drifting over the mouth of the Thames.  Two huge black forms are tied up at the General Dynamics docks.  As the fog drifts out to sea, the innocuous shapes show themselves as Triton missile submarines, boomers. 

Also tied to that same docking facility is a much smaller vessel, the USS Hacklehead.  All of three hundred and twenty feet, bow to stern, and a twenty-seven foot beam, she is dwarfed by her big nuclear powered sisters.

Until recently, a decaying training vessel tied to a peer and used to teach young submariners dive procedures. The Navy discovered teaching crews on the old boats made it easier to teach the men the new procedures on the new boats. 

Horace J. Carbone CEO of Black Rock Systems Inc and John Marsh Vice President in charge of systems development and four other very influential friends had a special interest in this particular boat.  They all had served on her in the Atlantic during World War Two. 

Using their influence and almost limitless funds, they were able to convince the Department of the Navy to donate the vessel.  By special order she has been refitted, inspected and modified to be a museum display.  At present everything works and the boat is sea worthy.  No longer a fighting machine, her armaments welded into ornaments of what they represented. 

Officer’s country now has clear plastic walls separating the small compartments from the passageway.  This was done to give the visitors a fish eye view into everyday life on the small diesel boat. 

Unlike the modern juggernauts of the deep this vessel has only one passageway from stem to stern.  There are six pressure hulls and hatchways to segment the interior incase of flooding.  All the torpedoes have been removed with the exception of two; one forward and one aft, both are dummy shells only.  Only two of her four diesel engines are functional and some of the dead batteries have been removed and replace by new higher capacity units.  All that is left is to transport this WWII warrior to her final rest, a naval museum in Newark New Jersey and there are six men who know exactly how they want to do that.


Topside 11:30 Hours (Sail day minus one)

Commander H. J. Carbone USN retired stands firm on the teak planks at the coning tower bridge looking forward as he had done so many times before, his leathery tanned face, shaded by the brim of his old baseball cap.  The slight ache in his chest didn’t bother him but he felt it wise to pop a nitro pill under his tongue just to be on the safe side.  He was the CO of this old girl forty-five years before and in his mind he kept reminding himself that he is still, ‘qualified to do this.’ 

The old girl is not exactly the same anymore, they had changed the sail, abbreviated it to a sleek narrow fin, with the profile similar to the newer ships, they removed the deck gun with its platform, otherwise she is the same boat he had commanded before.  He lowered his gaze to see his two friends fidgeting under the deck planking half way up to the bow. 

Chief Engineering Mate Henry Gilbert, CEO of Gilbert Industries, was laying face down with his head and shoulders in an access hatch.  Harold chuckled quietly to himself,  “He’s a multi-millionaire with a face full of valve lubricant.”  There’s an old corroded valve and fitting that was troubling Henry.  Equipment not used for seven years, not since the last training dive was done at the old girls mooring. 

“Cap, you sure you want to try this?”  Lieutenant J. Marsh Ret., called up to him.  “We could run on the surface all the way, it’s only two hundred miles to the site.”  He shaded his eyes with an oily hand as he looked up at his captain and close friend for a response.

“I don’t expect to go any deeper than a one hundred or so feet.  If you guys did it right and repacked that valve, we should have no problem.”  The broad grin on his face did not reassure Mr. Marsh, or Henry.

Henry, loudly muttering to himself,  “John!  Horace is out of his mind, we blow any one of these big valves under here and we’re going to turn into a lead weight.  A hundred feet, hell!  Bottom here we come.”

“Gunta should be here this afternoon, he’ll look it over, he’ll know if we trust it or not.”  John was timidly attempting to reassure his friend.

“What’s that kraut know, dat we don’t?”  Henry never liked Gunta.

John heard something snap and the clunk of heavy metal against metal.  “What the hell was that?”

Henry raised himself up from laying flat on the deck and sat with his legs cross.  He reached into the access hole where is head had just been and pulled out a heavy piece of steel plating, severely rusted on three sides.  “Gunta know how to weld a new mounting flange for one of those valves?”

They both looked up at the sail again, the commander was not there. 

Control Room 12:30 Hours

Master Chief Boatswain Thomas (Tweed) Carson, also known as the COB or Chief of the Boat.  Tweed was the only one of the six that wasn’t independently wealthy, he was just along for old times sake, the Chief was career Navy, retired on Navy Pension.

The COB is on his knees adjusting one of the purge control valves.  He heard someone coming down through the maneuvering compartment, and started down the ladder to the control room.  He recognized the man’s step.  “Pardon me Cap’n, I can’t get up as fast as I used ta.”

“It’s ok Boats, you’re busy.”  He stepped over the chief’s legs, with the ease of a thirty year old, slipping through the hatch and continued forward to his cabin. 

“We got no more spares on anything Cap.” The chief called after his skipper. “They musta stripped her years ago.”  His volume a little lower,  “They showed her no respect!”  His voice trailed off, realizing he was not being heard.

Horace could smell fresh paint mixed with the faint smell of fuel oil as he approached his cramped space.  The chief had taped black plastic bags over the clear plastic compartment walls to provide his friends with some privacy.  Horace and his friends have been living on board for seven days now, doing the final preparations for the old girls last trip. For those fit enough, they wore their original uniforms some were pretty moth eaten.  The rest of them had new uniforms fitted to their aging and bulky bodies.

The commander stooped down to look through the open hatch into the forward torpedo room, now empty of its deadly cargo, the compartment is as large as the aft crews quarters.  The tubes were only left for show, no longer functional anyway.  He remembered when it all worked, visualized seeing eight men in those cramped quarters, their bunks sandwiched in between the torpedos.  Harold reached into his pocket and produced a small shiny pillbox; he popped another one in his mouth under his tongue. 

He heard the sound of shower shoes behind him. 

“Morn’in Captain.”  Lt. Commander Larry Hammond, President of Hammond Communications, was just out of the shower.  “So tomorrow’s the big day.”

The CO paused a second before answering, he hoped the pain in the pit of his stomach is just gas.  “It might be an uneventful cruise Larry.”  The Captain smiled and stepped into his compartment.  His old Executive officer followed to the door. 

“Didn’t expect any events?  What’s up?”  He looked puzzled.

“John and Henry don’t think she can dive safely.”

“That sucks.  What does the Kraut say?” 

“He’s not here yet.”  He pulled out a pack of Camels and lit one.  “I’ll agree with what ever he says.”

“Oh, Yea, did you ever get the clearance from Fleet to dive this boat?”

The Captain sat at his bunk mulling the answer to that question for a second, the nitro under his tongue seems to be taking care of the pain..  “No.  They don’t own this boat anymore.  It belongs to us until we deliver it to Newark.  What they don’t know won’t hurt ‘em.”

Larry was surprised, the captain never went against command in the three years they had fought together.  “We getting a dive crew?”

“I spoke with training command, made them an offer the guys couldn’t refuse!”  Harold lay down, propped up on his pillow.  “All expenses paid on Broadway for the crew and their families, they jumped at the chance.  They held a raffle for seats on this cruise.”

“How many?”

We’re getting nineteen cold war instructors.  They think it’s only to flesh out the crew.

Engine room 13:45 Hours

“An old boat, half the engines, twenty-five crew and six of ‘em are old farts!”  Harry Gallagher shook his head,  “We’re nuts!”

Harry left the Navy 1950, he was Chief of the engines on this boat from 1942 until his discharge.  He bought a service station in Boston in 1951 and became so successful, he wound up franchising it in five states with all the supply rights. 

John tried to console him.  “Harry, we’re only looping around Montauk, west to the Hudson trench and in through the narrows.  It’ll be a walk in the park!”

“Only if we go on the surface” 

“If you don’t want to go, say so, we can replace…”

“No, no, I wana go,  these engines ‘r my babies.  I wana go.”

“So shut the pie hole and let’s get her seaworthy!”

The two men moved to one side as Henry crawled into the compartment from the aft torpedo. 

Henry snickered,  “Yea, right. Seaworthy?”

They heard the whine of a motor through the narrow hatch way.  The three men quickly exited toward the aft torpedo room, they climbed up and out on to the narrow aft deck.  There is a gray Navy mini bus on the dock, nineteen enlisted rates piled off and started to gawk at what once was a proud prowler of the deep.  The obvious patches, the discolored deck plates and impromptu blotched black paint.  All the men wore the emblem of first class Petty Officer and carried blue canvas overnight bags.

The wise cracks started immediately…
Sam Welch, a heavy set black first class PO stepped forward and said. “Do you believe dis shit!  Now I knows da Navee wants me dead!” 
Walter Wrangle took off his white hat scratching his crew cut, “What the hell, what is this, down to the sea in ships, where’s the fucking mast and yard arm?”
“Up periscope, might as well get ready to go under now.  The only thing keeping it afloat is the moorings.”  The last man giggled.

Three of the sailors huddled together and were mumbling to themselves and exchanging dollar bills.

Horace emerged from the forward trunk, now wearing his cap and braid.  Without saying a word the ranking non-com of the nineteen on the dock reported.  “Atten-hut. Capt’n on deck!”

The men immediately lined up in two rows on the dock and came to attention.  At the same time a stretch limousine pulled up and parked at the edge of dock, towards the stern of the boat.  Horace started up the gangway and Gunta Brund emerged from the back of the limo and started walking forward towards the formation of sailors followed by his driver carrying a small tan canvas bag.  Gunta was the oldest and most experienced submariner of the bunch, at eighty he marched, not walked toward the group.  His cap with the gold braid, the off white turtle neck and the uniform jacket with the gold braid at the sleeves reminded everyone of an old war movie.

After the war, Gunta and Harold met at a submariner’s reunion and had unexpectedly discovered they had fought one another toward the end of the conflict.  They spent the evening exchanging war stories and become very close friends.  Over the years they had only met seven times.  The last being Gunta’s wife’s funeral.

Commander Carbone reached the dock as Chief Tweed was following up behind him. 

“Gentlemen, welcome to the United States Submarine Hacklehead.  You have been TDY to my command for three days.  I am Commander Horace J. Carbone, like you I have been temporarily activated for three days to sail this vessel to the Naval Depot. Newark New Jersey.”  Two men broke into a snicker. 

By this time Gunta had passed behind the formation, did a perfect right flank passed the two lines of sailors and stopped beside the gangway.  Everyone’s eyes followed the chauffer as he put the bag down next to Gunta and returned the way he came.  At this point Gunta executed a perfect military about face and stood at attention far to the right of the captain and the chief.  One of the men laughed out loud when he noticed that Gunta was wearing a captains cap with “U-726” on it.

In a thick German accent.  “Pardon me Captain, I would like to say something.”

“Gentlemen, this is Rear Admiral Commander Gunta Brund, on lone from the German Navy!”

Gunta broke his stiff pose and addressed the detail.  “Be very careful young men, you are insulting a fine lady of the sea, when you laugh towards that boat!”  He spoke softly, with a pronounced German accent with power and reverence.  “She is going to her final rest, where her memories will be related to those who do not know.  I fought against this boat for a year at the end of the war.”  He stepped back to attention.  “Thank you Captain.”

Horace acknowledged Gunta.  “Our guest actually knows more about this boat than most of us, he has been attached to this project because of that fact.  Chief, get them assigned and quarter the men.”

“Aye Cap’n.”  As the captain and Gunta first saluted one another, then shook hands and began to walk down the gangway, the chief produced a small note pad from his shirt pocket.  “I know all of you guys, you are the best at what you do.  “  He looked down the line at each man, and then started to assign his duties.  “Hastings, you’re our cook and fill in for all stations.”

“Cook?  This is less than a day at sea?”  The man stepped forward from the line and seemed astonished.

The chief pointed at the man to step back in line.  “Coffee, sandwiches and snacks.  And, cool aid if the captain wants it!  At ease!”

Continuing, “Philipini, you’ll work with Henry Gilbert in Engineering and Control Room all stations.  Moskowitz, Control Room, planes.  Williams, dive station Control Room and Galley.  Iaconi, Radio, Sonar and Control Room...”  The list went on until all had been given their tasks.  He placed the little note pad in his pocket and stood sternly in front of the formation.  “Unless you know what your talking about, there will be no more wise cracks about this boat or cruise!”  Then he went to the end of the line.  “And, what was that huddle about?”

The three men looked at one another sheepishly.  Finally the last in line said.  “We were laying odds if we would live!”

The first guy mumbled. “Oh Shit!”

“Ok belay that!”  He stepped back and said  “First line only, right face.”  They all executed the maneuver.  “Fall out to the aft billets.  Rear line left face.  Fall out to the forward torpedo room.”  They all broke formation, picked up their overnight ditty bags and piles on to the boat via the forward and aft gangways just as they had done hundreds of times before. 

Captains Quarters 14:00 Hours

“Gunta, how was the trip?”  Not that he had not seen or spoken with him in two months.

“The SST, I dislike it!  It is cramped and too expensive.”  You could cut his thick German accent with a knife.  “What is this nonsense I hear that we cannot dive?”

“Henry got your ear?  Yea, they found quite a bit of corrosion at the heads of the vent valves.”  He offered his friend a camel cigarette.  “They seem to think if we start to cycle them we won’t be able to close them.”

The old German thought for a moment, while his friend lit the cigarette he was just given.  “Have you tested them?  Did you try and vent them one at a time and blow them again?”

Knowing this is the obvious procedure Horace broke into a grin.  “I had to leave something for you to do.  We did everything else!  You think you’d just stroll in here for a leisurely cruise, did you?”

Gunta glared at him with a scowl that turned into a grin.  He reached over to Horace who was sitting on his bunk and began to shake his hand.  “Ya.  Zat was exactly what I was expecting!”  And, they laughed together.

Officers Mess 16:30 Hours

The officer’s mess is cramped, the compartment seated four at an eighteen inch by three foot pressed wood table, with bench seats on both sides.  Seated inside are the Captain, the Exec. Larry, Lt. Marsh, Gunta and the Chief was standing at the door. 

“Gunta, you had a chance to cycle the floatation quite a number of times.  Are we sea worthy?”

“If you needed all the tanks for floatation, absolutely not!”  The captain’s eyes dropped to the table in disappointment. “But you have full fuel tanks, fuel is slightly positive buoyancy, less two engines, no torpedo’s and most of your sophisticated electronic systems are missing.  Plus you have no provisions, and a quarter complement of personnel.”  Everyone hedged on his next sentence.

He unfolded a schematic of the plumbing in question, he pointed at three of the floatation tanks.  “Flood zees tanks und lock zem out , you vill ride at a nominal level, maybe a little higher zan normal, but you vill be able to dive and surface with the remaining tanks.  You vill be fine!  In fact you might have a problem keeping her unter.”

Horace stood up and said, “COB set a watch schedule and we go tomorrow morning”  Everyone smiled and found a place to flop for the night.